"i'm graphic like that"-- score and binary

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november 9, 2010, poznań, jg

'Tender in the night and the washing machine alone with you and a few of those laughing cigars whereby satyrically wrapped the ploral garment of soul

'Tender in the night and the washing machine alone with you and a few of those laughing cigars whereby satyrically wrapped the ploral garment of souls may thread forth barely',
for prepared guitar, mini-theremin, live electronics.
First realization October 25, 2010 in Poznań, Poland.
Dedicated to Stephen Ellis, Karolina Ossowska, Hubert Napiorski and YOU.

update 2012: this track was deleted and will reappear on bandcamp soon enough.

listen to other sounds 
http://soundcloud.com/automatopoeia

leap emptiness (boundary), the perfect is, form set { imaginary } the 15 lateral devices & every drone between point a and b

"this book is not for reading. this book is for discovering. what is in this book to discover? This above all, but first of all, that it is only a book..."--Edward Stachura

"okay now, let's get round" -- a voice in the distance

that certain kind of drift under control tones ending specified functions by a cloyed resultant inefficiency to attend a focal nexus

"stemming through horizons"

from the rain falls badly magnetic harps another mouth all the grand parents or grand-children's teeth before the weapon announced

youth ego roamage opacity regret tender in the cuticle for heaven downs the perfect clip painstakes the agora cuts up further minimalism cries in the unofficial version cries in the official unsure of either sincerity beyond was of the crash-landing immaculate

what great tabs you have revealed the nebulous know alone suited in themselves of inner woven over suited in such selves that negligee of broken links patching as a thoroughness of hybridity melting into dozens

from these three muscles the derivation of literature sempiternally and divide the cluster behind the ear's mirror there gently tongue what's left of it after all rightness falters three sacs or more of air grown plush

you couldn't have put the sky in a better place had you tried and wore even nevertheless out the welcome of impact sybylls rebracketed and the erosions swirling all pop and no soda in just anybody's stomach

_----_ OXYGEM __---_----

in yesterday's pizza are found the projections of ever more untoward boxes no condtion original appends to

such a record the needle broke off in the groove and that machine of memory no longer figured just as clearly our kids no coulda suppressed that vowel particular to shabby saturdays and thus this thusly the acetone flower was classed out of

you couldn't weep on the eighth without tears freeze open your eyes to the ninth summons stepdown drawer and conscience itself a kind of mastication seemingly all tagged a dog number one

you wouldn't golf with a ball so bound in patterns, why patterns, why poland, why the gulf of my arms the black gold liquid the deafened bird sunken

go on to brugges and cylindrical empire weareth out cedar and wolves dank brise offen the nacre by repetitions feel empty grace embrace the vessel of your calculations drive forthe the thicke new cloud

(if the man want's it to be "enterprise" what can we do about it?")

for each gape of the gyre the vines & pedigree tra_slucent limn their iffy wedges and air is it not for them sexual partitioning the shared hydropshere by gum oaken winch or untether

disnormal and aprized music was not going into germany that year any better than privately issued circulars of breathy achievement gave the plato of corpuscles to drink in anyone's cafe

zero by remainder shall be known that votive or grain elder mellowing so and for only this step that she came she comes through would be and having so brisques the smile and ups the rumple in any line

manfred was a lousy sort of poster, a pastie, a postie

via immobile

those who in secretion have cured thy heart and drape about towns their own unshod horse withit taking they mount for themsouls wish not ash upon them or jess up other winchesters for their rut deeply coined gone paleo to whatever next sudden miscredenza

what you are free to say when you know that no-one is listening. what you could say if you were not being bullied to say something they mean but which they are too cowardly to say themselves, inwits. awareness a kind of nearness natheless gnomeliness the train whistle far down the line suddenly encompasses and blows open.

a sensible air charged with light all the dripnight long

august 8,9, 10

with friendly fractures "in between" that make it what it is and all the difference

that roundness, is around

the girl on the bike i have always dreamed of being

all the permeable surrounds of the minimum pressure point dissolve

brisque

applied

the preferable leggings

thigh deep in a pond of leaves or letters

we don't know why

embryonic sunstroke

inside the fish

the girl on a bike i have often dreamed being

whatever unshould'r'd butterfly

everywhere and nowhere

specified, pedal tones

figure deep in the most fading lines of any drawing

...this face left

the right of that

alive in the light one sees over a wall

or better yet through

the wall's aliveness

august 8, 2010

poznan (virtually)

scraps of paper typed up in no particular order until now

every people (person) is another person (people's) fantasy.
and there are some things you just can't fake
until you try (they'd've been otherwise, real enough, completely normal
without you, but there you are
in the silent stampede of eyes, eye-ocean-liners
stretching out a mile-long ghost or gist
under too many palpabrating horn-rims and arched frappeau
another mongolian throat metal populist front
a city of pretty kitties turning cart-wheels
they seem to say look and don't look.
at the tree of the unbelieving, stop, consider awhile
their positions, bizarrely arching, tangled
bursting forth from the earth and sun
spangle in their leaves a broad while searching, linger
and go on: fable cables from mythology
"make it to my office."
what's this i hear?
'bout you organizing a union?"
don't know what you mean boss.
punks just shootin' the shit
like it ain't no-body's bizness.
jimson, and aleph, telegraph erasmus,
dinner's at eight. good to hear the juice is on the vine.
here's a buck, get your head blocked.
i gotta round hole to screw you into. [Picks up the skull and dagger phone,
hears a dull buzz, downs the reciever, grim, catatonic.]
Troops had entered already this Atlantis, the shock flocks of seahorse
died and dyed the Caspian black evacuating, veins of blended black blood
woven towards Torun. Mushrooms, pinpricks
in voodoo beauty's cushion, where the head of the Hetman
falls back into his bed of flames.
I was never attracted to such sudden hot-button expulsion schemes up until that moment. double-brained boss last week spoiled bread sandwich caper, dynamite, lightening cracks an oak, bat wit twitters
lift the stone off his throat please, that way EVERYBODY
get's to sing [The classroom erupts into cheers, all will be able to scream, at once!]
The Library Heart freshened scalpel
DEVICE ON SURGE
there is no being more enlightened than on the moment of goodly death
the most beautiful woman in the room resembles this situation
fingers fathom down your feathered clouds
and into your bed-ridden details of elder fog
how small the smack strangely small creature is into everything so to say
go down on the infinite (he of the water-logged sails)
he who went home, too...
for the fragile infinite is woven into every thing we do
but I have run out of fragments for your dream

the aerth by a green hay-glow
liest engardened
find her roots
inside you now

december 2009-- december 2010, today, written mostly in
pozńan (mostly, but i'm not entirely sure...

The Tale of Fake Lake and the Man-made Clouds

The Tale of Fake Lake and the Man-Made Clouds

for Lee Foust

"One set of cut marks does not make a complete case for cannibalism," said Francesco d'Errico, of the Institute of Prehistory in Bordeaux. It was also possible that the jawbone had been found by humans and its teeth used to make a necklace, he said."

Yes, I think I too have been guilty of thinking what will become of my so-called remains and those of the others maybe the beloved whose skull I find half-buried, recognizable only by the crooked teeth, in a strange vision of departures dreams made for me, in the open territories bounded by the city, the urban-urgency keeping dreams incomplete. How the box turned inside out shares edges with the other walls of the box whose precipitous verges I climb and nature's cardboard canopy which you cannot find here, how it...I don't know. It's as if this man I am wanted either to write a sentence or sound a silence long enough that he could walk around in. While at every period he falls outside. The roars are phantasmal yet no less disturbing thereby and therefore all the more maddening. How to stop the creation again is not an option. Pigeons. Clicker lighting the stove. A faded applique cherubim on the pillbox and unlit candle its wick clean, white, straight peaking out of a small copper cup next to the stack of blank note-blocs on which there should have been written in spidery hand the angels gnarled in cataracts and fossilized rills---I could have been reading someone else's mail, maybe you are reading this too, a voyeur and a catalyst, in someone else's mail (it certainly would be more exciting than entering even the most malkevitch of minds, another persons little life so much larger than your eyes) all of which is uninclined to comment back, its head's spiked with fish-fins waving and fanning aside the resistant masses into the disappearing depths, the depths of do and the depths of do-not, the depths of know-nothing-about-it still captured up in the slipstream and storming down several millenia of monsoon, a godawful smelly hopeless muddle bubbling with sacred hearts' barely remembered names out to seas only ideal shores prescribe and whose about-face showed clear in all the mirror's butterflied alibi's that their hacked open world wound up found in the bottom drawer of a samurai wanderer's satchel after years of east calling east in the shadowless ooze. This was the substance after all sticking my shoes to the surface of a street-paved with silver, a sky made of gold, a rainbow's pavillion structured by the heated dune turned into glass. Remarkable for how many wells dug turned dry or not. The unceasing whirlwind, the sacred becoming profane and the profane sacred and my two-cents have had both faces erased. He takes out the whole ball of wax and peels it rather like an orange and stands back holding the small orbicity of glass--what a rind it was, they will say-- into the light of the sun and his eyes burn holes into the tiny bubbles locked in ages ago. The earth seems like such a memory. The bubbles stand separate far-flung and hanging like dots in a dark sky there is no hope to connect. There is no hope but to stare long and hard and watch all the things flow through once again and repeat every action the exact same way as before with a small shift in emphasis that upsets the hand and downsends the unlikely orb rolling, imperfectly round, on its own, just as Jack, setting down his lanterns, chalks up his cue, and steps to the table to break.

24 sierpnia 09, poznań-dębina

perfecting, withstanding, inoperative, grace

precision, virgilian candelabra, thrust of the evaginated relic
hoist within the cauliflower, coffee-flower
fathoming a lark's tongue
an acrid
thread

more into the weeping depths the mourner plunges
ever on the gaps and tremolos
fruited and fruitless murmurs grow
and still the web gently fingered trembles
into the crumbling wharf of the tree
extended darkly into darker waters

not without puss, snoring, sputters or wormed turntables spinning
incantible dribbles and tokes
mensural smears and a pinned-down clamoring
not without rails untenanted, mossies here and there
and sandwiches fragmentarily

bonsai at whatever rate
it unfolds
the leaf around which
its tail turns

and of course it doesnt make sense,
the phone won't work, too far from civilization, i guess.
i should have access soon
though

precision, the incidental incursion
perfecting, withstanding, inoperative
grace

poznań

july 29, 2009